


Adrenaline

by marlee813



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, Other, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:15:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marlee813/pseuds/marlee813
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the thrill of the kill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adrenaline

Dean closes the door to the dingy motel with a huff, checking and double checking to make sure it’s locked. Just to be safe, he pulls the chain lock, feeling the grim satisfaction when he hears the snick. 

It’s times like these when he wishes that Sammy wasn’t away at college, the hunt so much easier – and safer – when he had his tank of a younger brother at his side. Hell, even his dad wouldn’t hurt at this point, but he’s still gone, trying to avenge his mother’s murder and Dean is left alone in a pay by the hour motel, covered in blood.

His heart is still racing as he sits on the bed, tugging off his leather jacket – which had crusted completely stiff in dried blood – and tossing it on top of the chair that stands alone in the small room. 

Next to come off is the AC/DC shirt that Sammy bought him for Christmas one year, having saved up enough money by delivering newspapers. The shirt is completely sodden and Dean isn’t sure if it’s from sweat or blood or some disgusting combination of both. He feels his skin prickle as he pulls it off, his nipples hardening quickly and shooting sparks of lust down his spine and into his lower stomach. He feels his dick twitch hard, and reaches down to palm himself through his jeans. 

This, unfortunately, was not a rare occurrence; the thrill of the hunt, of the kill, was enough to have Dean hard as a rock. He usually ignored it, as his adrenaline rush subsided, so did his hard-on. But this time was different, the need to fuck his fist so tangible he could taste it. 

He pops the button to his jeans, shifting backwards on the bed until his back hits the headboard, effectively bunching his pants around his thighs. His cock is desperate; seeking the air like a flower seeks the sun, the tip poking out of Dean’s boxers. He smears the precome around the head, his hips thrusting up hard every time Dean’s thumb catches the underside of his dick.

He throws his head back, shuffling his pants down more to give him better access, his cock head flushed purple with the desperate need to come. He spits into his palm, the slick-slide of his hand across his heated flesh has him groaning low in his throat, his breaths painting staccato notes into the nearly silent room.

He feels himself draw closer, his stomach coiling taut with the pressure and he quickens his pace, his blood thrumming and his chest heaving. He wedges a hand beneath his body, trailing one spit soaked finger across his hole and he’s gone, spurting all over his hand and chest as he milks his orgasm.

He collapses back into the bed, finally feeling his nerves calm as he drifts peacefully between consciousness and sleep. The sweat cools quickly though, and Dean feels himself begin to shake, the coldness of the room only noticeable now.

He sits up carefully, feeling more rested and composed than he has in days, and decides to head to the diner downstairs for some pie.

But first? He really needs a shower.

THE END.


End file.
